by Bridie Clark
“You know she’s buying that veil,” Mom muttered as we watched Lucille’s hasty retreat. “It’s incredibly generous of her, but she’s gotten so pushy—”
“Claire? Trish?” said a familiar voice from behind us. Luke. My stomach dropped to my toes. He’d walked past us and then stopped in his tracks. For a moment, I stood frozen—not sure what to say, not sure how to broach the subject that I was so overdue in broaching… .
“Luke!” Mom said, kissing him hello. “So good to see you! I was hoping I’d get to this weekend—”
“What a nice surprise! What brings you to town? Just a visit?”
“Well, um, yes,” said Mom, glancing down. She and Bea had been on me for weeks to tell Luke that I was engaged—they seemed to think the fact that I hadn’t proved some mysterious point. I couldn’t explain why I hadn’t told him yet. True, I’d been talking to him nearly every day as his book approached publication … but I hadn’t mentioned my engagement the first few times we’d spoken, and then it seemed awkward that I hadn’t—so then I didn’t, and—well, there really wasn’t a decent explanation.
“I gooooot it!” The shrill sound of Lucille’s voice made my stomach drop again. Oh no. She was swinging a Vera Wang bag that was almost as big as she was. “Your veil! I know you said you wanted to wait, Claire, but I just couldn’t resist! Forgive me, darling! You can try it on at home and then return it to the boutique so they can send it to Paris for additional hand beading. They promised to have it done in time for the wedding.”
Mom turned toward Lucille sharply. “I need to look for shoes. Will you come with me, please?” she asked forcefully, taking Lucille’s arm. Lucille, pleasantly surprised that Mom was taking an interest in fashion, handed off the Vera Wang bag to me.
“It was great to see you, Luke,” Mom called out over her shoulder, “hope to catch up soon!” With that, they left Luke and me standing alone on the sidewalk.
“Your veil?” he asked, scratching his head.
“God, I am such an idiot!” I groaned, slapping my forehead. “I guess in all the chaos of work and getting your book off to the printer, I completely forgot to tell you the, um … really exciting news! Randall and I are getting married.”
I watched my words register on his face, wishing I’d told him over the phone when I had the chance.
“You’re getting— Wait, is that why Uncle Jack and Aunt Carie are coming up in June? They mentioned they’d be here for almost a week and mentioned something about you having a big day, but it was such a flyby conversation, and there were multiple grandkids screaming in the background, so I didn’t drill down on what they meant. I can’t believe—you’re getting married?”
I hated myself. Not only had I neglected to share the big news with Luke, but I’d forgotten that Mandy had sent an invitation to Jackson and Carie. What was I thinking? I’d invited Luke to an intimate family occasion in Iowa, but not to our seven-hundred-person wedding in Manhattan?
Mom and Bea had been right. The truth was, for some reason—some reason that I was painfully uncomfortable examining—I hadn’t wanted to tell Luke about the wedding.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said. “Please say you can come to the wedding, Luke. And the rehearsal dinner, Friday night, at the University Club. We’d love to have you there. Please—can you make it? And your girlfriend, too, of course.”
“We broke up,” he said, not responding to the rest of what I’d said.
“Oh!” I took a step back. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Luke. Well, of course, you can come by yourself, and—”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“What? Not a good— Luke, I am so sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. Please don’t be—”
“See, here’s the thing,” Luke began, furrowing his brow. Taking my arm, he pulled me off the sidewalk and into the quiet doorway of a needlepoint store. I put down the bag and rubbed my arms a little. It was a warm May afternoon, but suddenly I had goose bumps on every square inch of my body. What was the thing? And why was Luke looking more serious than I’d ever seen him look before? “On the one hand, I’d love to celebrate any happy occasion in your life. I mean that, Claire. But on the other hand …” He paused, studying the lines of the palm of his hand before looking up. “I have feelings for you. Strong feelings. I’ve always wanted to tell you that—ever since that first time we bumped into each other, I’ve felt something toward you—but there never seemed to be a right time. Anyway, now is obviously not the right time, either, but I—I think I’m falling in love with you, Claire.”
We stared at each other, both terrified of what he’d just said. There it was. Out there.
“God, this is awkward,” he said, forcing a laugh. “I’m sorry. Maybe that’s something I should’ve kept to myself. I see you with a veil, you tell me you’re marrying someone else, and I go and blurt out—”
“No. I’m glad you told me, Luke. I just—I’m just not sure what to say.”
He chewed his lip. “Did you really forget to tell me about the wedding, or—”
“I, um … I’m not sure, I—”
For an editor and a writer, we had some way with words.
“You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything,” Luke said quietly, his gaze holding me in one place. He took my hand. I felt the same electric shiver I had that night he’d kissed my cheek under the awning.
“I’ve got to go,” I suddenly spat out, pulling my hand away. Then I felt my body move, walking away from the awning and Luke and down Madison, weaving through people, the shops passing by in a blur, the warmth of the day settling in around us.
I needed time to think. Like, five years on a desert island. Everything felt so tangled and confused and—
“Claire!” It was Luke—he’d run after me.
“Listen, I can’t do this right now”—I was jabbering a mile a minute—“I’m getting married, Luke, and even if for whatever reason I didn’t want to share that news with you—which was wrong of me—the fact remains, I am getting married. In six weeks. Less than two months. To a great guy”—I felt the tears start streaming—“a really great guy”—dripping off my jaw, my chin—“and I can’t just—you know—”
“You left your veil,” Luke said, handing the bag to me.
“Oh,” I said, feeling pretty humiliated as the tears continued to drip off my face. A woman with several shopping bags in tow paused on the street, staring at me with pity in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I just want you to be happy.” Luke’s face was close to mine. I tried not to look at his lips, the line of his nose, his shining dark eyes. I trained my eyes to the ground. “You should be as happy as you possibly can be. And if Randall’s the guy who really does that for you—makes you as happy as you possibly can be—then you should be with him.”
“Thank you,” I repeated—not knowing what else to say, my head spinning.
And then Luke kissed me. Just once, just perfectly. For one brief moment, everything felt like it made sense again—even though nothing really did. If Luke hadn’t pulled away, I wouldn’t have been able to myself.
I lived the next few weeks in a fog. Everything seemed to wash over me—wedding details, Vivian’s tirades, Bea’s concern, Randall’s increasing absence. Mara and I met up for drinks one night, and she asked if I’d been taking sedatives. Life just seemed muted. I hadn’t spoken to Luke since our kiss—deep in my mind, thoughts of him ran perpetually, but I hadn’t gotten any closer to understanding what my feelings really meant, or what I should do about them. In a way, I was grateful for my zombielike state—I just couldn’t handle looking at my life with any degree of focus.
One evening in early June, I decided I’d walk home to finish my day’s work. I meandered down Madison, which was packed with New Yorkers reveling in the early days of warm weather. I stopped into a deli to grab a fresh pack of cigarettes, not bothering to feel bad about the purchase. I was just lighting up in front of La Goulue when I saw
her.
The blonde from the picture in Randall’s desk drawer.
Across the street from me, in a light sweater and a pretty summer skirt that showed off her well-toned legs. She was phenomenally beautiful. When a cabdriver slowed down to let her walk, she waved to him with genuine appreciation. There was something about her that I involuntarily liked.
She crossed the street toward me, and began walking toward La Goulue. I walked behind her—I was headed in that direction anyway, I justified. I watched her swing open the door of the restaurant.
And then I saw Randall through the windows, opened for the summer weather. I saw him stand up at his table when she came through the doors. He looked at her in a way that I’d never seen him look at any woman before. He kissed her on the cheek, and they sat down.
That’s Coral, a strangely calm voice in my head told me, and I kept walking down the street. Another woman would have charged into the restaurant and demanded to know exactly what was going on. Another woman would’ve waited in painful suspense for her fiancé to get home—waited for an explanation or to let him have it.
But then, another woman wouldn’t have been kissing another man a few weeks before. Another woman wouldn’t have been replaying that one stupid kiss in her head ever since it happened.
More for me to not think about. More to push aside, as if it hadn’t really happened. I walked home the remaining blocks, catching my reflection in store windows and barely recognizing the exhausted woman staring back at me.
Hours later, in bed, I quietly asked Randall about his dinner. And yes, he admitted immediately, he’d been at La Goulue with Coral. He was sorry he didn’t tell me. He’d only wanted to tell her about our engagement in person—he felt he owed her that—but there was nothing between them. He hadn’t wanted to bother me with it, since it meant nothing and I’d seemed a little tense lately.
I told him I believed him. I had to believe him. I didn’t have the energy to question and probe and discuss and get to the bottom of it. Almost eleven months into my career at Grant Books, six weeks to go till my wedding, I had reached a level of emotional and physical exhaustion that left me incapable of resistance. The only option was to accept Randall’s explanation and push thoughts of Luke out of my head. I rested my head on the pillow, feeling hollow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ENORMOUS CHANGES AT THE LAST MINUTE
Okay, enough. I’ve got to leave for the church this minute or I’m going to miss my own wedding,” I told Vivian firmly, capping my pen.
She looked up wide-eyed, as if startled by the news that I was getting married today. Maybe she was startled by the news. Given her general level of interest in the lives of people around her, it seemed entirely possible that Vivian was only now clueing in to the fact that I was wearing a white gown and heavily beaded cathedral veil.
She’d been planted in the bridal suite for nearly forty-five minutes, instead of the agreed-upon five, and Mandy and Lucille were starting to circle us like wild dogs ready to pounce. Mom was sketching in a notebook in the corner, something she did to calm her nerves. Bea, who’d passed the time by drinking flute after flute of Veuve Clicquot, was now well on her way to being hosed. I was jealous.
“Fine,” Vivian relented uncharacteristically, dismissing me with a queenly roll of her hand.
“Finally! Thank you!” Lucille shouted, chucking Vivian’s coat at her and pushing the entire group toward the door. “Good God! Whoever heard of such a thing?” Mandy shook her head emphatically.
“So you’ll be in on Monday morning, correct?” Vivian asked as we stepped onto the elevator.
“Yes,” I answered. I paused, then added, “You know, Vivian, you were invited to the wedding.” Lucille had sent the invitation without asking me, wanting to stoke the crowd with as many high-profile New Yorkers as possible.
“Yeah, I saw the invite,” Vivian answered distractedly, offering no explanation for why she’d chosen not to attend or even RSVP. “Monday morning, Claire, I expect you to call me first thing. We have a lot to go over. Here I am, chasing you all over the city—my life doesn’t revolve around yours, you know!”
“You’re both crazy,” Lucille hissed, pressing the “door close” button in the elevator, and for once I was inclined to agree with her.
We rode the rest of the floors in funereal silence. The tension reminded me of my elevator ride with Lulu all those months ago. I wondered what she was doing this weekend, whether she was trapped in the office. I knew I shouldn’t care—Lulu had been nothing but a headache since the day I started at Grant—but I felt sorry for her. Well, a little.
When we got outside the hotel, Vivian marched straight toward a chauffeured Lincoln Town Car and jumped in without saying good-bye. “Lulu, I don’t know where the fuck you are,” I could hear her barking into her cell phone through the open car window, “but I need to talk through some things with you immediately. Call me back the second you get this message.” I watched as Vivian quickly punched another number into her cell phone.
“Drive!” she bellowed, and the driver screeched away from the curb.
Bea and Mom helped me climb into one of the white Bentleys parked out front—Lucille and Mandy would be traveling together in the second one, so they could discuss last-minute details before battle. Hands reached in to arrange my dress so that it wouldn’t be wrinkled.
“You are zo pale!” clucked Jacques, ducking through the open door of the car to stab at my cheeks with a blush brush. “There, ees better.” He blew us air kisses and stepped away from the car.
All brides get cold feet, I told myself as Bea poured three more glasses of champagne for the ride to the church. My mother, who barely ever drinks, downed hers in record time.
Marriage is a huge commitment. I’d be scared no matter who was standing down there by the altar.
The car pulled away and headed for the church. Twenty blocks. I prayed for red lights. I just needed some more time to think. Just a few extra minutes and I might be able to make sense of all of this. Everything had happened too fast. It was natural to feel panicked. After all, in the span of just one year, my life had changed past recognition.
One year ago, would I have ever guessed that I’d be marrying Randall Cox—the most successful and handsome man I knew, the man of my dreams since college?
Come to think of it, would I have dreamed it possible that I’d already be working as an editor on such high-profile titles? Sure, I’d edited a lot of schlock and dealt with plenty of insanity at Grant Books, but I’d also had a hand in four New York Times best sellers and had edited one pretty amazing piece of literature. Luke … I quickly pushed my thoughts away from him, as I’d been doing for the past six weeks … more, really.
What was wrong with me? Really, life had turned out better than I could’ve ever imagined a year ago. So why’d I feel like if I let myself start crying, I might never stop?
Nerves, just nerves. Twelve blocks. Eleven. I was nearly out of time. Just get through this wedding, Claire, and you’ll be fine. All brides got cold feet.
A cab stopped to let out a passenger, and I felt grateful when our car got caught behind it.
“I’m … I’m …” I stammered, not sure what to say next. Bea and Mom leaned forward expectantly, hopefully. I gulped some champagne.
“What is it, Claire?” Mom asked gently. “Is everything okay? Because, dear, if everything isn’t okay, now would be a very good time to tell us. You can tell us anything, Claire, and we’ll support you one hundred percent.”
“Yeah,” piped up Bea, slurring her words a little. “Whereas two hours from now? Not so good a time to tell us.”
Eight blocks. I thought about my dad. I thought about how as a little girl I’d climb up on his lap and ask him to tell me the story of how he and Mom met. And when he finished, I’d ask to hear it again. Because you never get tired of listening to a real love story. Because as his daughter, I loved the way his face lit up when he’d say, “And then your mother
walked into the room.”
“Here, Claire,” my mother said, handing me a handkerchief. Jacques would have a conniption if he saw how wet my cheeks were. “Why are you crying, dear?”
“Just nerves,” I managed to squeeze out of my tightening throat. It was too late to answer any other way. I’d let things go too far. Life had become a runaway train, and I had only myself to blame for that.
The car stopped. We’d arrived at the stony back of the church. In a fog, I allowed Mom and Bea to help me out of the car and up the short, pebbly path. I was vaguely aware of the second Bentley pulling up, Lucille and Mandy clamoring out behind us. The four of us walked into the back of the church. Mom squeezed my hand. And then—
A glass-shattering shriek pierced the air.
Lucille.
Ten steps ahead of me, sitting on a small chair in the back vestibule, was my groom.
“Bad luck!” his mother wailed like a banshee, a look of absolute horror on her face. “Bad luck! He … can’t … see … you … before … the … wedding!” Her tiny chest began to wheeze violently, gasping for oxygen.
“Luce, you’re hyperventilating,” Mom said calmly, putting her arm around Lucille and guiding her into a small room. “Try to relax, sweetie. It’ll be okay.”
“But … it’s … bad … luck! They’re … not … supposed … to—”
“I know, Luce, but try to calm down,” Mom murmured. Beatrice quickly dumped out a paper bag filled with rose petals right on the floor and headed after Mom and Lucille. She yanked Mandy along with her, shutting the door behind them.
So now Randall and I were the only two people in the back area of the church.
For a moment, we just stared at each other, not saying a word. Randall looked Cary Grant handsome in his debonair tuxedo.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly.
“Thank you,” I answered. “You, too … I mean, um, handsome.”
We were the picture-perfect couple, about to share the picture-perfect wedding and embark on the picture-perfect life. We stared at each other again, still from opposite sides of the small vestibule.
